Then I took a hack back to the Collegium, arriving a good glass before dinner. That gave me time to rest tired feet and to think some more. Dinner was quiet, and I walked alone to the anomen for services, standing forward and to the side where I could easily hear Isola.
Her homily addressed something I’d never heard a chorister mention before.
“. . . the other day I was asked by a young imager why we cremate those who have died, and why what we do makes any difference in the eyes of the Nameless . . . Were you to go to an anomen in Caenen, except they call them churches, you would find a large grassy expanse behind the building. Covering that space would be stone monuments, each topped with the forked columns of duality. On the face of each monument, carved into the stone, would be a name and an inscription. And what would you find in the ground beneath each monument? A body . . . or the remnants of one.” Isola paused.
I could hear indrawn breaths of repugnance from some of the younger imagers. I didn’t like the image her words evoked, either. Buried and rotting in the cold, damp ground? I supposed it wouldn’t matter, though, not if I were dead. Still . . .
“I can sense the distaste that image creates,” she went on, “but what is the reason behind this practice? We all know bodies, once dead, do not come to life again, and that, for all the old folktales, there are no necrimagers. Certainly, the Caenenans do not even believe in imaging. So why are there monuments and bodies beneath them?” After another pause, she continued. “This practice is yet another variation on the sin of naming. We all seek meaning in our lives. We want our thoughts and deeds to live on after us, and if we have expressed worthy thoughts and done worthy deeds, we believe they should live on after us. But carving a name in cold stone, over a lifeless and decaying body, is mere vanity. A name is not the deeds of whoever bore the name. A name is not the worthy thoughts of whoever bore the name. A name, once whoever bore it has passed on, is nothing more than an assemblage of letters, an empty vanity. . . .”
Was that really so? Wouldn’t I want others to remember me? To remember Rhenn? And didn’t the Collegium list the names of imagers who died in service on plaques? Like Claustyn, who’d been so supportive of me when I’d first made third. Or were those names carved in stone more to illustrate that they had died doing deeds?
“The Nameless cares for us, for what we have done, for how we have loved . . . for those are what comprise us, not a name, nor a label. We are the sum of our acts and thoughts and feelings, not mere names to be set on dead stone. . . .”
I had to wonder if, in a way, that was why I preferred portraiture to sculpting, because the goal of the portraiturist was to create an image, an impression, of the sum of the personage as he or she was in life, an image that also touched and changed the lives and views of the beholder in the way I had never found that cold stone could do.
I would remember Claustyn for his warmth and friendliness, not for his name.
Wouldn’t I?
36
On Lundi morning, I’d barely taken three steps into District Three station, carrying the bag that held the brown cloak, the plaid cap, and the smaller bag with the purple scrap of wool, when Captain Harraf appeared at his study door and summoned me with a peremptory gesture. He said nothing until he had closed the door behind me.
“You haven’t heard anything about the Navy conscription teams, have you?”
“I asked about them, but all I was told was that they’re likely to begin conscripting in L’Excelsis shortly. The Collegium hasn’t been informed when they might start in specific areas of the city.”
“Shortly? Is that weeks or days?”
“I got the impression that they would begin in L’Excelsis sooner rather than later, but no one could tell me an exact date.”
“Rather convenient. I suppose that even the liaison to the Civic Patrol isn’t exalted enough to be privy to such.”
“So far as I can tell, Captain, even the Collegium councilor doesn’t know.”
He looked hard at me.
I had no doubts that Rholyn didn’t know. Master Dichartyn might, but not Rholyn.
Finally, he said, “You expect me to believe that, Master Rhennthyl?”
“Captain, you can believe whatever you like, but the councilor told me that he didn’t know, and if he doesn’t, I don’t know when the conscription teams will be doing anything, or where-except that I do know they will be operating in L’Excelsis before long.”
“It appears that the Navy trusts the Collegium as little as I do.” He smiled coolly. “That was all I had for you, Master Rhennthyl. I imagine Lyonyt is waiting outside for you.”
“Do you know when you’ll have a replacement for Alsoran?”
“He’s not the kind of patroller to replace. A new man is scheduled to be here a week from today. It may be that you will be rotated to another station before long, as well, but no one has informed me.”
That was also understandable, from what I’d seen. Neither the subcommander nor the commander really knew what to do with me, and I’d gotten the impression that Artois didn’t want to talk to me and Cydarth didn’t want me in headquarters. “I’ll help as I can here, sir, until the commander decides.”
Harraf nodded. “You’d best find Lyonyt.”
I didn’t bother replying, but smiled, turned, opened the door, and departed, leaving the door open behind me. I stowed the bag in the cubby and went to look for Lyonyt.
“Master Rhennthyl?”
I turned.
“Lyonyt, sir.” He stood almost a head shorter than did I, with a wiry build, and brown eyes that never seemed to remain fixed on anything, even while he was looking at me.
“We’re to be patrolling together this week, I understand.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry I’m late, but the captain had a question.” I looked toward the station door. “I suppose we’d better get moving.”
“Yes, sir.” Lyonyt seemed to bounce as he moved.
I didn’t say more until we were striding up Fuosta toward South Middle. “You’ve been on leave.”
“Yes, sir. I have to thank you. The captain said I only got it because you were available to help Alsoran.”
“I’m not sure he needed much help.”
“Could be, sir, but it meant a lot to me. Anacherie was so ill after little Marie was born, and then with my father dying right after that . . .”
And Harraf wouldn’t allow Lyonyt leave without a replacement? Was Third District that short of patrollers? “I’m glad it worked out.” I paused. “How long have you been with the Civic Patrol?”
“Be nine years next Ianus. Best thing I ever did, quit being a butcher’s apprentice and apply to the Patrol. Wasn’t the cutting. That was fine. Always have liked knives.” He drew a long shimmering blade from the sheath on his heavy belt, a sheath partly concealed by his short patroller’s cloak. “Times a knife’ll do you better than a truncheon.” The knife vanished. “Always got fidgety halfway through the day. Caymeyrl was always telling me to settle down. Said a good butcher had to be solid. . . .”
We kept walking, turning east on South Middle. I listened, but kept my eyes moving. For all his chatter, Lyonyt didn’t stop looking, either.
Just after we passed the Puryon Temple, I caught sight of another tough, this one some twenty yards up Weigand-the first through street to the south past the Temple. He watched us until we were out of sight. I didn’t look at him but once, but could feel his eyes on my back.
I didn’t see a purple jacket under the nondescript brown cloak, but I would have wagered he was wearing one.
“. . . Sansolt always listens, but he never says anything . . . gets to a fellow after a while. Now, Jaovyl, he’s a good man . . . got the round east of the Guild Hall this rotation. . . .”
Before long, we reached the Avenue D’Artisans, and after less than two quints with Lyonyt, I could see why he’d been paired with the quiet and solid Alsoran.